


(We are not) Homeless

by Cyane



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, George Washington is a Dad, Homelessness, Hurt Alexander Hamilton, sort of not-really suicide attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-05 22:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12803958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyane/pseuds/Cyane
Summary: George Washington is driving home when he sees a young, scruffy boy sitting calmly on the ledge of a bridge.





	(We are not) Homeless

**Author's Note:**

> Cue me writing a million suicide-related one shots. With no actual death, of course, since I enjoy watching people suffer, not actually get put out of their misery. (Was that an ethical statement? Meh. Sadistic writer, everyone. Y'all know why you're reading.)
> 
> Unbeta'd. All mistakes are my own. 
> 
> Happy thanksgiving, by the way, if you celebrate that type of thing. I put the setting of this fic in November after realizing the date. :')

Most people looked forward to Friday nights. Usually they got work off early, and had time to kick back and go to a pub with a group of friends; relax in preparation for the upcoming weekend, drink and not worry about anything else that happened during the weekdays.

George Washington was not one of those people. 

First of all, he stayed even after hours, simply because he was passionate about he did. George stayed, working under lamplight in his office, bags under his eyes and a blanket wrapped around his legs. Even as the janitorial staff worked around him, George would have small, polite conversations with them, but he continued typing away at his computer. It wasn't so much that he 'loved' his job, in the traditional sense... moreso that he found his work indescribably interesting and inspiring.

So, after receiving a text from Martha at midnight, asking if she should bring him some dinner, he finally decided to pack up and get back to work on Sunday. George laughed a little at her dry, pleased response.

On the twenty-minute drive back to their home, George saw him. 

Silhouetted by lamplight, a thin, scraggly-looking teenager was sitting on the rail of the bridge, smoking. 

While others might've immediately passed off the figure as a 'hoodlum kid', or a drug addict, or _dangerous_ , George knew better. His adopted son, Gilbert, had gone through homelessness after running away from his biological father, who had died afterwards. And George had lost too many companions to suicide.

Not wanting to startle the boy, George slowed, and, after a moment's hesitation, got out of his car. He only pulled over a ways, since the roads were deserted and it was nearly one-thirty in the morning. 

When he got a closer look at the kid, the first thing he noticed was the shaking. The boy was trembling like a leaf in the wind, his fingers struggling to clutch at the cigarette he was holding in one hand. George frowned; he felt cold himself, in the freezing November air, and he was wearing a heavy peacoat. Combined with the chill of the night and the boy's thin, fraying gray hoodie, the kid was probably freezing.

"Are you alright, son?"

The young man-- who didn't look a day over fifteen, George thought-- startled at the voice, jerking around and dropping the cigarette in his surprise. It tumbled down, off the bridge and into the swirling abyss of water below. 

_Better than him falling._

"Shit!" He muttered, looking down at where the nicotine-stick had fallen. 

"It's probably for the best," George said, "those things'll kill you, you know."

The boy eyed him warily, shoving his still-shaking hands into the pocket of his hoodie. "Yeah, thanks a lot. Listen, man, I don't want any trouble--" 

"--Neither do I."

If anything, he looked even more confused. "Then what do you want?"

George's mind raced. He had the creeping sensation that the boy wasn't actually suicidal. But he put his own pride away: it didn't matter if he was wrong. Better safe than sorry. He'd rather spend another hour talking pointlessly than see the boy's picture on tomorrow's news. 

"What's your name?"

"Alexander Hamilton." The boy said, enunciating every syllable with pride. He straightened his back out defensively, just asking George to challenge him. " _What do you want?_ " 

George took a step closer to the ledge, but stayed a good ten feet away from Alexander.

"I would like you to come down from the railing, Alexander. It's dangerous. You could fall." The senator spoke honestly, but his eyes had a look in them that just read, _we both know what I'm talking about. I don't want you to jump._

Alexander scoffed. "Yeah? Let me tell you something, sir. People who are worried about falling don't usually sit on the ledge in the first place."

"Hm. True. But people who sit on the ledge usually worry about what'll happen if they don't." George crossed his arms on the handrail, leaning over and looking out into the water. From the other side, the skyline was still dazzling with lights and the nighttime city noises he'd grown so fond of.

"Who are you?" Alexander finally asked, hands methodically twirling the aglets on his hoodie strings. "No offense, but you don't seem like the type of guy to be searching out for homeless kids in the middle of the night. You don't seem like the type of guy to care."

 _"Why do you mind, monsieur? You have no obligation to moi."_ Gilbert's words bounced around George's head, feeling so similar to the boy who was sitting in front of him. 

George tried to be careful in his wording, but still seem casual. "So you are homeless? You've nowhere to go?"

Alexander raised his chin, taking on the same defensive body language. "Define 'homeless'. I've everywhere in the _world_ to go, sir. I don't have a house, but I've got a home- New York City is my home, sir."

Hmm. George let his eyebrows raise at the words. He hadn't been expecting that level of philosophy from a homeless, teenage boy. 

"It is mine, as well," George agreed, gesturing towards the skyline. _The greatest city in the world._ "Although I've got a warm place and a family to go back to." He kept his voice nonjudgmental.

Alexander smirked humourlessly. "Well, sir... my mum's dead, my dad isn't coming back anytime soon, my cousin..." He trailed off, dry remarks turning bitter with grief. "All the family I had is dead or gone, all of my town is either drowned or dying. I shouldn't be alive. But I _am_."

George felt his heart pick up, anxiously, preparing himself to run forward and catch the boy if he needed to.

"...So you came here to end it?"

_Get ready--_

"No."

George's mind pulled to a stop. He frowned, confused. "Then why are you...?"

Alexander grinned wildly, gesturing to the huge sky. "Because I'm _alive_ , sir. I came to America, despite everything. Despite not having a house or a family or a place that's my own, I am going to make it. Sir, I'm going to make history. I'm Alexander Hamilton, and I am going to have a legacy."

"Good," George breathed out, simultaneously relieved and impressed by the boy's ambitions. Just by Alexander's obvious, thin frame, and the dark circles under his eyes-- and the fact that he was sitting on the ledge of a bridge; they were all indications that everything in this boy's life had been a struggle. 

"I'm going to make something of myself," Alexander promised. "And I'm sitting on this ledge because I refuse to die. Not now, not after everything. And I didn't even know how much I wanted-- how much I _needed_ to live, until I got up here. But I won't die. I refuse."

George slumped over, just a bit more. "Glad to hear it, son. Although it's not a good habit to keep-- nor is smoking. That will be the death of you, no matter how strong you are in terms of willpower. Can't compete with lung cancer."

"I'm not stupid, or an addict or anything. I just managed to nick one... and I haven't had one in weeks."

George nodded for a moment, looking out into the soft lights of the city again. "How old are you, Alexander?"

"Seventeen," Alexander said.

_No._

He couldn't help the surprise that flooded him, evidently showing on his face, because the boy blushed madly. 

_He looks far younger, but still. Seventeen, and alone in New York City._ Of course, George knew that there was no surprise there. He was an advocate for helping the people that lived on the streets, homeless or not. Still, it didn't help the surprise or pain he felt, especially when they were only children. 

"Look, son-"

"I'm not your son," Hamilton muttered, although he was ignored.

"-My name is George Washington, and-"

"George _Washington_? The senator?" He had Alexander's full, wide-eyed attention, at that point. The boy looked positively shocked. 

"Er, yes. You know me?"

Alexander's eyes filled with adoration and George felt strangely flattered. "Of course I do, sir. I didn't recognize you in the dark-- I've read all about you from the papers. You wrote the documents talking about George William Frederick! I read them all in one sitting, and I completely agree with your point of view. Although the phrasing on the beginning is sort of jumbled, sir, and I almost mistook you for agreeing with him. I would've used stronger thesis tones in the first paragraph to make it more clear."

George exhaled slowly, feeling winded. "Well... thank you, Alexander. Unfortunately, not many people think it's in their best interest to stay informed on local and national politics... I"m glad you do."

The boy nodded rapidly, swinging his legs over the rail and hopping down, to George's relief, in order to get on the same footing as the senator. "Of course, of course, Mr. Washington. And international politics, as well- it'll effect us all, at one point or another."

Only an hour and a half later, when George noticed he had several missed messages and calls from Martha, did he realize he had been engaged in the conversation with Alexander for such a long time. He quickly responded to Martha, saying he was, indeed, alive and well, and that he would be coming back home as soon as he could.

He finished typing, and realized that their conversation was at an end. George had been expecting to talk to an adult, to convince them to come down, and to drive them to their home or a hospital. He hadn't been expecting to find a homeless teenage boy with ambitions and a knack for politics.

Alexander seemed to reach the same conclusion. He grinned, anyways. "It was nice meeting you, sir. I assume you need to get going, so..."

George hesitated. He could not, in good health, ethically or morally leave Alexander alone. Not in the freezing November cold, not in the middle of a dark street, on a bridge. Not when Alexander was eating far too little and, although he had an odd sense of existence, had little regard for his own self-preservation. 

"Would you like to..." George coughed, awkwardly clearing his throat. "Er. I'd usually advise against getting into a middle-aged man's car in the middle of the night, but. If you'd like to stay with my family, for the time being, we'd be more than happy to accommodate you."

_What am I doing?_

Of course George knew that Martha would be more than happy, and Gilbert would probably be thrilled to have a friend. Worst come to worst, they at least put him with a foster family that George knew was safe and they gave him some good formal education. Warmer clothes. Food. 

Still, it was unusually rash, even for him. (And he'd adopted a homeless, teenage french-immigrant after knowing Gilbert for three weeks.) 

_It's not like you're adopting him. Just watching out for him._

While George raked through his internal rationalization and debate, Hamilton's jaw had fallen open in shock.

"You... you want me to go to your house?"

"I'm only giving you an option, Alexander. You don't have to come with me if you don't want to. But, I would at least like to get you somewhere safe. If it makes you feel more comfortable, I have family at my home, so you won't be alone with just me."

Alexander took a step back, arms folding tightly across his chest. His expression reverted back to the one of initial distrust. "I don't need your charity," he growled.

George smiled. "I'm aware. Obviously, you've done above and beyond, proving you can take care of yourself. I'm not offering pity, nor anything of the sort. Just a warm place to sleep. You'll catch hypothermia in this weather."

Alexander furrowed his brow for a moment, standing still for a moment. 

"How do I know you're George Washington?"

George fumbled to get his wallet out. He pulled out an ID and a drivers licence. Alexander scrutinized them for a moment before stepping back, breathing heavily. His breath was cloudy in the cold. 

"Okay," Alexander finally breathed out. It was the quietest word George had heard from the boy, but it was still audible in the near-silence of the night. 

He nodded, putting his wallet back into his pocket and gesturing to where he had parked his car. Alexander's hands were shaking badly again.

"Okay." 

Alexander looked surprised at his own decision, but followed him towards the car nonetheless. 

While they walked, George pulled out his phone and quickly sent another message to Martha. 

_Is it alright if I bring someone with me? Seventeen, tiny kid freezing out here. I think he's an immigrant, judging by the accent, and he's homeless. I'm not sure how long he'll be staying, but if he's going to keep living, he needs to get off the streets._

Martha texted back almost immediately.

_Of course, George. Poor boy, he can stay however long he needs to. I'll tell Gilbert and make more dinner. I'll see you when you get home. Did you catch the boy's name?_

George smiled, shutting the car door behind him. To his right, the boy did the same, climbing into the car.

_Alexander Hamilton._


End file.
